Digging out as Digging In

Perhaps the first phase of moving from one place to the other is placing a foot on the correct route.  Getting to my route requires digging out of the rubble.
This, of course, is metaphorical rubble, the mention of which seems a bit inappropriate in the face of all those I have seen who have had to contend with literal rubble; rubble in life is rubble though.
Pulling things from the ceiling and from high shelves, digging through the darkened burrows of self perpetuating piles, shifting through the moldering bits, scouring the caked and grimed, and removing all the flat and useless things to a safe space beyond my eyes.
The rubble or clutter is the noise in the signal to noise ratio that we are committed to at birth. The light footprint is light because the maker is not heavily loaded.  Here in my home, we will no longer load ourselves heavy.  Today was lighter; tomorrow will be more so.

Fair Weather

There is a maternal quality in the smell of rain on soil.

In Alabama the soil's deep red clay leaks sweet odor into the scraggy pines, pushing the steam from the hollow places up the faces of the hills, breaking across the long twitchy green (high with bugs, and clotted with weeds). Grass is cut, dies, and rots in place blending in calm putrescence like a broth to attract flies.

Florida the rain is violent, sucking life into your lungs, punching tracheal parts with its choking force.  The sand breathes it in, and the chitinous shelled things shrug it off; mysterious reptiles soaking it in, radiating it out from themselves.

Tennessee is mute, old and tepid.  Lovely and closed in, boxed into the hills.  I can smell it across the room.  They are asleep.  The storm has passed. 

Distant Early Warning

Small siren sounds. Is it Wartrace again?

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.7

heavy aura: to the farm! to the farm!

heavy aura: to the farm! to the farm!: "I am, at heart, a country mouse. chickens, cats, kids, calves shotguns up on the hill (I'm a decent shot so far) summer sausage quiche an..."

Pondering Spaces...

A profound feature of confinement is the instrument of constriction. To be imprisoned would appear to be a greatly more sinister fate than to be embraced, or wrapped in the womb, or held in blanket, wrapped in a bedroll, blanketed in a fog, enshrouded in silence...

If the space that in which you are confined is a range, that is to say a space of territory that you can largely move about without restriction (excepting for the restrictions placed on us by gross legality) it is more perilous to say that we are patently constricted. The edge of those spaces are rubbery walls that offer resistance, but are not without somewhat permeable membranes. You can pass out of them, into the borderlands for times, and pass back into them, but you can stay outside of your range basically for a length of time equaling the amount of material you have on hand combined with your agenda in regards to your social and personal contracts. Thus, free range space, the space beyond confined space, is inaccessible as long as the center of the hub for you life is rooted in space.

Space is big. The long years of my youth were spent in the borderland places of growing or contracting metropolitan areas (or in the far flung exurbs). The space I occupied, therefore was vast; an area comprising the best parts of the Interstate 65 corridor. A huge space and a huge fence. Now to set my center hub beyond this existing space. But where? And what can be topography?

Would this count?